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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23524465">Sand and Glass</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/flayrie/pseuds/flayrie'>flayrie</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Gundam Wing</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Fantasy, F/M, Family Drama, Forced Marriage, Marriage Proposal, Political Intrigue, Romance</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 14:42:11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>12,347</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23524465</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/flayrie/pseuds/flayrie</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>After her father's death, Dorothy's position as heir to House Catalonia is called into question. Meanwhile, Quatre abdicates the throne to his eldest sister, leaving himself adrift and seeking purpose. Taking fate into her own hands, Dorothy journeys to Sandrock with a proposal that could shape the rest of the continent for generations to come. [Fantasy AU // Illustrated by yawniverse @ tumblr]</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Dorothy Catalonia/Quatre Raberba Winner, Relena Peacecraft/Heero Yuy</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>34</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>91</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. The Uncrowned Prince</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This is loosely tied to Ennobled which is a 1xR smut one-shot set in the same universe. Other characters will start popping up in the parts that follow.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The sun beat down on a parade of horses as they trotted past the desert city’s imposing walls and into the waiting oasis. An overwhelming sense of relief washed over the travelers as the gates closed behind them. After being ravaged by the Estyrsands for what felt like forever and a day, the city of Harlika offered a healthy dose of capital hospitality, holding them in its embrace. Flowers rained down from many a window as the caravan rode through. Children ran out into the street for the spectacle as a growing crowd began to chant the name of its country’s returning hero, echoing the news of Lord Quatre Raberba Winner’s homecoming down every alley.</p><p>His sisters were always wont to offer him a lavish welcome even when they disapproved of him “playing at war.” A boy of sixteen was expected to earn his scars on the battlefield, and the newly-minted Lord Clark had come to call for his aid. It was all he could do to answer with over a hundred Maganac riders at his back, sparing House Clark’s lands from pillage. There was likely a scolding in store once his eldest sister summoned him. For now, he busied himself with getting to the palace stables to dismount. A bath was likely in order as well. Once he traded his sand-stained traveling robes for a fresh tunic, he might be better able to brace himself for his family’s onslaught. His sisters were legion, a whirlwind of silks and stares that could cut a man down with nary a worry.</p><p>“Would that it were Father who had to contend with this,” he mused. “He’d be buried a hundred times over.”</p><p>The rest of the caravan was already at the bath house when Quatre arrived; the lot of them washing sand out of places they didn’t even know they had. Quatre soon joined them, hoping steam offered some modesty as he sank into the heated pool with his comrades. He splashed hot water to loosen the hay and mud matted into his short blond hair from battles a fortnight ago. Better to handle it than have his sisters fuss. His most-loved sister, Iria, often brushed his hair back when he wore it long. She’d sit him at her vanity and hum old lullabies as she brushed, teaching him the notes to strum on his lute for lazy afternoons. His heart was still shattered from watching her ship vanish into the horizon, sailing to Lagran so she might apprentice for a renowned healer. It was all he could do to dive straight into the first military campaign to come his way, hoping the battlefield might harden him.</p><p>He swallowed the lump in his throat even as his blue eyes began to water. <em>Calm the sea within you and look to the sky. </em>Iria sang those words to him whenever it looked like he might cry. Besides, it wouldn’t do to weep in front of his warriors, men who had been through far worse. It pained him to think of her fading from his memory as she saved lives across the sea. Did she still wear her golden hair in a bob or had she taken to plaiting it as was the fashion for Lagran’s elite? Had her soft hands grown callused from tending to casualties? Did her blue eyes look across sea and sky and wonder about home?</p><p>“You ready for Draginta?” boomed a cheerful voice through the steam, turning Quatre’s thoughts to the sister who likely held him least dear. “You gave her the throne. She might take it easy on you for once.”</p><p>“<em>Princess</em> Draginta,” corrected Quatre. “You know the walls have ears, Rashid.”</p><p>“You say that like she’s ever cared about any of the formalities,” Rashid huffed. “Her mother was a mercenary.”</p><p>“And a warrior loyal to the principality after she bore my sister,” murmured Quatre through gritted teeth. He knew Rashid meant no offense by it but the princess’s whisperers might beg to differ. Draginta had a rougher childhood than the rest of her royal siblings, clawing her way onto the Sandstone Throne with the cunning of all the princesses who ruled before her. The Sisterhood of Sellswords craved power from womb to tomb, and they made certain Draginta tasted blood as soon as she was weaned from her mother’s breast.</p><p>If it were up to their father, Quatre would sit the throne by simple virtue of being a man. Prince Zayeed had all but left the principality to his son, then a boy of five, as he breathed his last. As a child could not rule, Draginta saw fit to take on the regency. She soon built a rapport with the commoners and merchants to secure her hold. By the time Quatre came of age, riots broke out at even the notion of dethroning his sister. He was forced to his knees before Draginta, relinquishing his claim as people cheered his “generosity.” <em>I didn’t give her the throne. She took it.</em></p><p>Quatre pulled himself from the bath before Rashid could say anything to incriminate himself further.</p><p>“I hope to see you and the rest at supper,” he muttered, half-knowing that his riders would rather dance in the streets than suffer the rest of House Winner in Sandrock’s great hall.</p><p>“Hope is fleeting,” laughed Rashid, waving his lord away. “We’ll follow you onto any battlefield but Sandrock is all yours.”</p><p><em>Of course.</em> Sometimes, Quatre’s childhood home felt almost like a prison. Sandrock was a testament to his family’s legacy, a monument that still stood after nearly two millenia. It was almost a town in its own right, walled off from the rest of Harlika with brick that took on a golden tint when the sun rose and dove behind the dunes. Four towers loomed at the corners of the fort, each offering a different view of the city and beyond. Quatre favored the east tower for marveling at his country’s lifeblood: the River Cifra surrounded by plots of green and gold. Day in and day out, it bustled with life from the farmers taming the loam at its banks to the rainbow of sails riding its currents as fisherfolk cast their nets. The sun would have yet to rise when merchants brought wagons bearing the river’s riches to Harlika’s markets, rousing the city long before the rooster’s crow. As a child, Quatre had often debated stowing away in a fruit peddler’s cart once the day’s sales were done. Having some idea of what his sisters had in store for him now, he couldn’t say the idea had lost its appeal. He might even settle for a fishmonger’s cart under the circumstances.</p><p>Fresh undergarments and a clean white tunic did little to lighten his mood as he left the bath house. He shuffled along to the north tower, climbing the winding staircase up to his bedchamber. The door welcomed him with a creak as he pushed it open. Inside, the most basic of accommodations for a man of his status greeted him: a plush featherbed and little else. Laid out on his pillow, he found a few trinkets to help prepare him for the night’s festivities. He couldn’t help but lament the lack of a desk but that was likely by design. His sisters loved to drop by the reading room whenever he wrote to Iria.</p><p>Resigned, he sat at the foot of his bed, picking up the shell comb and hand mirror to lend himself some polish. Much as it would please his sisters, he chose to ignore the fingerpot of anointing oil. Myrrh and sandalwood had never suited him, and he’d be damned if he were to reek of pretentiousness all night.</p><p>Dusk peered at him through the window as he willed himself to head down to the belly of the beast. His legs felt like lead as he turned the corridor at the base of the steps, mentally dragging himself down the path connecting the tower to the great hall. The hustle and bustle of the party floated to his ears long before he laid eyes on the wide open doors, black-robed sentries standing at either side to check familiar faces. No one questioned Quatre as he strolled in, swimming through the revelers as he found his seat to the far left of the dais.</p><p>Quatre could already feel Draginta shooting him a glare from where she sat, whispering to Novette at her right hand. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Novette stand, gathering the jade silk of her long flowing skirts in exasperation as she made her way to him. Her long chestnut curls bounced as they framed the frown on her reddened face. <em>So it begins.</em></p><p>“Justice Novette,” greeted Quatre, trying far too hard to sound chipper. “Time at the Magistery has done you good. Had I known you’d returned ahead of me, I’d have written.”</p><p>“You could have written me at the Magistery, brother,” sniped Novette. “It would have been a comfort knowing some brigand hadn’t cut your throat.”</p><p>She was right. In the lull between battles, he had ample time to write his sisters about his exploits. Still, every time he took quill to parchment, he drew a blank. Draginta had a principality to rule, Novette was studying to be Justice of the Sands, Quintarys was at sea…who was he to bother them?</p><p>
  <em>You are playing at war because you don’t know any better. </em>
</p><p>Even now, Draginta’s words echoed through the hollows within him.</p><p>“Your dress really brings out the green in your eyes,” he dodged, trying to change the subject.</p><p>Those very same eyes rolled at him as she got to the point: “Draginta asked me to switch seats with you. Blessed be the sands that know why.”</p><p>“Blessed be,” he nodded, getting up to honor the royal decree, trying not to jostle any of his other sisters’ heads as he walked by. He plopped down next to Draginta with as much grace as he could muster.</p><p>Seated to his right, Seira kicked him in the shin. “My scouts had to tell me you were on your way back,” she hissed. “Couldn’t be bothered to tell us you were safe and sound?”</p><p>Quatre turned to acknowledge her and was met with yet another glare. Candlelight lent her sable complexion an almost unearthly glow, as if she was lit from within and radiating rage. The bright red silks she wore only accentuated her forceful nature. With her hair cut short enough to keep anyone from grabbing her by the scalp, nothing distracted from her sharp cheekbones and the fire in her eyes. “My apolo-”</p><p>“A spymistress needn’t be told something she can deduce for herself,” interjected Draginta, voice low and soft yet yielding no authority. “I’m sure our brother has his reasons.”</p><p>“Of course, Your Highness,” murmured Seira, bowing her head and busying herself with breaking the bread on her plate.</p><p>Draginta was radiant as ever, wearing a crown of dried desert blossoms to match her eyes and the dark brown waves of hair cascading to her shoulders. Her skin was sun-kissed, tan from swimming in the river and cavorting with her subjects. Like him, she dressed simply, wearing the same cotton tunic in a more feminine cut that accentuated her curves and bared her back. “The first course should be out soon, Quatre.”</p><p>Her civility was almost warm. Small talk didn’t sit as easily on her lips as the cutting words and barbs she usually wielded. Still, had he not known her all his life, he may very well have been fooled. There was a marked difference in the depth of her tone as she tried to lend it some lightness. It was the same old menacing song in a higher key and Quatre had no intention of dancing.</p><p>“I know I failed you,” he whispered, mincing no words. Better to take the blame now than let her use it as a crop to whip him with later.</p><p>“Utterly,” she smiled, still looking bright and cheery for anyone who might turn their gaze to her on the dais. “We thought you had it in you to slay Lord Clark and take his maiden widow to wife. At the very least, you could have let someone else fell him. Instead, our scouts say you took it upon yourself to see him home safe. Dear brother, when will you learn?”</p><p>To Draginta’s left, their sister Alterra shot them both a look. Leaning over Draginta, she huffed at both of them: “Could we not desecrate the fruits of this harvest with talk of blood? One night, sweet sister. That is all I ask.”</p><p>Draginta laughed, raising her goblet to her lips. “I suppose I could rein myself in. After all, Quatre is no longer a child to be scolded.”</p><p>
  <em>She never gives up this easy. What does she have planned?</em>
</p><p>“You should eat, Quatre,” urged Alterra with an easy grin. “Northern food doesn’t sound all that agreeable. I curated this menu myself.”</p><p>Quatre was so caught up in divining Draginta’s machinations that he hardly noticed his bread plate had been swapped out for a sipping bowl of chicken broth with barley. <em>Easy on the stomach.</em> Iria used to make it for him whenever he was sick. He could definitely use the comfort now. The next few hours were primed to take his patience to its limits.</p><p>“This is an excellent start,” he mused, trying to dive back into small talk as they supped. Alterra was all too pleased with herself, freckles dancing with the candlelit shadows on her pale skin. Her long red hair was tied back in a braid resting limp over her shoulder, threatening to dip into her wine goblet. The sparkle in her blue eyes gave every indication that she hadn’t a clue. Between them, Draginta toasted someone in the crowd though Quatre couldn’t quite make out who lifted their goblet in kind.</p><p>
  <em>She is definitely up to something.</em>
</p><p>The rest of the courses came in rapid succession: flatbread with dried fish crisped up in oil, hunks of roast beef carved from a well-fattened calf, skewered lamb with an herbed yogurt sauce, and a honey sesame cake studded with dates. These were all Quatre’s childhood favorites and he had some inkling that Alterra had written Iria for advice. More care had been put into this meal than any of his birthday banquets. Why were his sisters so keen to put him at ease?</p><p>“Won’t you take wine for once?” asked Draginta as the serving wench made her rounds to pour.</p><p>Quatre was quick to shake his head, pouring water for himself from the pitcher at the table. “I’m dull enough as it is. Sipping wine would only aggravate the situation.”</p><p>“That good old self-flagellation,” she laughed. “Well, if you’re not drinking, you should be steady on your feet. Why not join the revelers out on the floor and dance?”</p><p>“Oh, I couldn’t poss-”</p><p>Draginta cut him off, calling out to the far left of the table. “Trista, won’t you take our brother out on the floor for a whirl?”</p><p>Even with his guard up all night, he’d somehow tripped the snare. There was no refusing after Draginta made her request for all in the hall to hear. There was a glint of mischief in Trista’s grey eyes as she downed her goblet before making her way to Quatre. She was quick to jerk his seat back, jostling him as he stood. Before he knew it, they were arm in arm as she pulled him to the floor in time with the band picking up a faster beat.</p><p>“This isn’t going to end well,” he protested, trying to mirror the other men dancing with their partners. Rashid had tried to teach him many a time but to no avail. Trista was lithe, swaying her hips and keeping her footwork in step to the music while Quatre was a riot of flailing limbs next to her. She was a vision in loose blue silks, bringing to mind crashing ocean waves with her fluid movements. Her competence only served to make him look worse. She danced circles around him, turning so fast her long raven ponytail whipped him in the face. Already, other men were looking over their partner’s shoulders, likely pondering how to cut in.</p><p>“It wouldn’t hurt you to put in <em>some</em> effort,” she pouted, full lips pursed in a frown as the song ended.</p><p>
  <em>Sands, deliver me from this torture.</em>
</p><p>A tap on his shoulder served to answer his silent entreaty. “Lord Quatre?”</p><p>The voice was light and feminine, almost airy. Though still off-kilter from trying to keep pace with Trista, Quatre found it in himself not to stumble as he turned to address the woman who’d called his name. Their eyes met, blue into blue as the sea saw the sky. She offered him the curtsy of a Northerner: hands at the sides of her skirts as she crossed her left leg behind her in an almost bird-like bow. Her hair veiled her in gold, long and flowing down to the cinched waist of her dress. As was Harlikan fashion, she wore loose silks that bared her shoulders, dipping at the neck to tease at the swell of her breasts. She wouldn’t have been half as striking if not for her choice of color: sheer black to contrast her fair complexion. He gulped, all too aware of the silence stretching between them as he took in the sight of her.</p><p>“Are you in mourning, my lady?” blurted Quatre before he could gather his thoughts. It was entirely the wrong thing to say without a formal introduction. She’d caught him off-guard, loosened his lips with little more than a whisper of his name.</p><p>“Oh my, what a strange thing to ask,” she smiled, rising from her curtsy. “Does the stench of grief linger upon me?”</p><p>“No, of course not! Forgive my impertinence. You caught me by surprise and I-”</p><p>“You are Lord Quatre Raberba Winner, youngest sibling and only brother to the Princess of the Estyrsands. A boy like you mustn’t pave his path with apologies. Sooner or later, people will think they can just walk all over you.”</p><p><em>They already do.</em> She cut him down with precision, never faltering in her gentle tones and sweet smile. Belatedly, he lifted his right hand to his chest and offered her a bow. “Might you have a name for me to call you by?”</p><p> </p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>
    
  </p>
</div><p> </p><p>“Dorothy.”</p><p>That was a parry if there ever was one. She carried herself with the grace of one from a noble family yet chose not to flaunt which house she hailed from. He straightened up, still trying to get a read on what might lie beneath her calm facade. “It’s a pleasure, Lady Dorothy.”</p><p>“Just Dorothy will suffice. I prefer it.”</p><p>Quite the paradox. Keeping to courtesies would override her wishes while being too casual might draw the wrong kind of attention. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see a few revelers stealing glances as he and Dorothy stood to the side.</p><p>“Call me Quatre then.”</p><p>
  <em>Was leaning into it really the right move?</em>
</p><p>“Oh no, Lord Quatre, I couldn’t. I am but a guest under your family’s protection. You deserve the utmost respect.”</p><p>There was a cloying quality to her tone, almost patronizing. Just who was this girl? She made mention of being his family’s guest yet she was a stranger to him. He looked up to the dais and spotted Draginta raising her goblet to them, smug smirk plastered on her face.</p><p>“Might I ask what brings you to Sandrock?” he choked out, heart in his throat as the set-up began to dawn on him. This wasn’t a homecoming. No, this was a sale. Around him, the guests were all smiles. Just how many of them had been in on it? Was this why the Maganac had passed on the festivities?</p><p>“A simple offer,” she grinned, showing the slightest flash of teeth. “Your sisters thought it was a grand idea. I’ve come to ask if you might take my hand.”</p><p>“Your hand?”</p><p>The last strains of the song faded out as the band fell silent. The whole room had its eyes on them now.</p><p>“In life,” nodded Dorothy. “Of course, you may also die by my hand if you so choose.”</p><p>She issued the threat with all the ease of someone commenting on the latest fashions. Not a single sentry moved to draw their sword as Quatre turned his head in bewilderment.</p><p>“I’m afraid the meaning behind this jape eludes me,” he spat, wondering if he was to be murdered where he stood.</p><p>“This is no jape, my lord,” she assured him. “You took a battering ram to the gates at Feller Bridge, thinking it was of little consequence as long as the goddess of victory smiled upon you. Brigands passed through after you left, burning fields of wheat and terrorizing our tenants. House Catalonia is owed a great deal.”</p><p><em>They were only iron gates.</em> Quatre’s troops had been backed into a corner when he decided that living to apologize would be preferable to dying while waiting for permission. It was often said that House Catalonia had enough gold stowed in the Romfort to feed every man, woman, and child in Espheria for the next hundred years. Any loss they suffered from brigands would be miniscule against the wealth they held in reserve. This was the very definition of pretense.</p><p>“Am I to settle this debt with my life?”</p><p>“One way or another,” she answered sweetly. “Your sisters brokered this deal to spare you the blade. Take my hand or die by it. Shall we wed or duel?”</p><p>“Duel?”</p><p>“Blood before Tears,” she crowed. “I stand by the words of my house. Do you stand by yours?”</p><p><em>Kindness in Conquest.</em> His family’s legacy was built on people coming together under one banner. A marriage such as this would further that tradition, bringing the Estyrsands closer to the rest of Espheria without Draginta having to shackle herself to a man. In return, House Catalonia would have access to the Estyri fleet, sailing their gold and influence to the shores of Lagran at a greatly reduced cost.</p><p>Fuck tradition.</p><p>“We duel at daybreak,” he declared, whirling out of the hall to a cacophony of gasps and whispers.</p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. The Forsaken Heiress</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>It mattered little to Dorothy whether he fell to her sword or into her marriage bed. Regardless of the outcome, she fully intended to bring him to his knees before all could be said and done.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Real life has been pretty rough so progress has been so slow. I'm trying to focus on quality over speed; so I hope this still suits your fancy despite the lag. All feedback is appreciated!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>That boy knew how to make the blood in Dorothy’s veins sing. Quatre departed the great hall with a flourish, leaving a smirk to play on her lips as she watched his swiftly retreating back. How was a girl expected to just carry herself off to bed after <em>that </em>display? It was all she could do to tamp down her wilder impulses, rubbing her fingers with the promise of a dagger’s hilt to hold a blade to his throat. <em>I must have that beautiful boy for my own.</em></p><p>Up on the dais, Princess Draginta waved a hand to the musicians, urging them to play so the revelers might turn their eyes from the aftermath of her brother’s sudden departure. Dorothy offered her a reassuring grin, marching up to the table even as the guests around her tried to please their liege by slowly getting back into the rhythm. She curtsied before the princess, never averting her gaze.</p><p>“You may yet count me among you, Your Highness,” smiled Dorothy.</p><p>“Not if we don’t count my brother among the dead soon,” sighed Draginta, pinching the bridge of her nose in exasperation. The crown of dried flowers on her head sat lopsided from when she had earlier craned her neck to watch Quatre bungle the match she had arranged. To her, Quatre had likely shamed both her and Sandrock’s entire council by rebuffing an esteemed guest.</p><p>“If he should surrender, his life needn’t be forfeit. However, I shan’t spare him if he should underestimate me.”</p><p>At this notion, the princess laughed. She leaned forward, elbows resting on the table as she steepled her fingers. “You fancy yourself a warrior, sweetling?”</p><p>Draginta meant to goad her; that much was clear. “Mayhaps not on your level, Your Highness,” simpered Dorothy. “But my father saw to my education. His armory was full of playthings to suit any fancy I might have.”</p><p>“And you fancy my brother then?”</p><p>“As a blade fancies the thrum of a pulse.”</p><p>For a second, the princess looked almost taken aback, arching an eyebrow even as Dorothy carried on smiling. “You have quite the dawn to greet, Lady Dorothy. Some rest would do you good. I’ll have the servants ready the courtyard for your duel.”</p><p>Around Draginta, the rest of the Winner sisters whispered amongst themselves, throwing her sideways glances meant to rebuke.<em> I’ve ruffled their feathers, haven’t I?</em></p><p>Standing from her curtsy, Dorothy nodded. “Regardless of the outcome, you’ve made a spectacular match.”</p><p>She made a beeline for the exit, swanning past the sentries. Torches lit her path as she made her way, silk slippers padding over cold marble floors. Two rights and a left, wasn’t it? Sandrock was a beast of a castle with winding corridors that led deep into its bowels. Dorothy had the good fortune of a bedchamber near the castle’s foyer; easy enough to spot once she came upon the immense hall that served to greet guests coming through Sandrock’s doors. Even in the flickering torchlight, one could make out the shapes of years gone by painted in murals surrounding the entrance: Maganac trading ships with their masked maidens of ebony at the prow, Estyri fisherfolk casting nets into waters churning with the catch of the day, sandy dunes dotted with date palms, and the River Cifra snaking through the whole tableau.</p><p>The details were likely lost on her without the light of day to further illuminate the finer brush strokes. An old story or two often accompanied such grandeur. Her own family’s history made for a much redder presentation. The blood of Old Lacroa coursed through her veins, anointing her as a daughter of despair. Her ancestors had taken many a city by force with an army of mercenaries ranging from common rogues to alchemists. They had poisoned wells and burned crops at their leisure. Some say they had even made sport of catapulting corpses into enemy camps; both to mock and to bring about a host of maladies ferried by rot. Perhaps it had been divine justice when Mount Moii erupted and turned the lot of them to ash.</p><p>Well, almost all of them.  </p><p>Lord Virgus Catalonia had heeded an oracle, fleeing to Espheria with a fleet of ships in tow. House Catalonia owed its survival to a superstitious craven who never met a neck he didn’t seek to put a boot to. <em>Such nobility. </em> </p><p>Dorothy turned to find her door, surprised to see light and shadow dancing under it. Her hand hesitated at the pull, wondering if the princess sought to end her before she could humiliate Quatre.</p><p>
  <em>Only one way to find out.</em>
</p><p>She tugged the door open and was immediately bathed in light. To her left, candles wept on either side of her vanity, amplified by the mirror reflecting them. An oil lamp burned at the windowsill. Though the night was far from chilly, a fire blazed at the hearth to the far right of her bed. It served to illuminate a figure seated by it, legs tucked under them on the floor as their arm gripped a poker to rouse embers from the coals.</p><p>“Seeking your fate in the flames, Quintarys?”</p><p>Quintarys Primaria Winner made a point of drawing one’s eye whenever she graced a room. Her penchant for trousers and short dyed hair turned heads at every port. A shock of indigo crowned her as the fire crackled, shadows dancing over the swell of her pale breasts under her thin cotton shift.</p><p>“Perhaps,” she murmured. “They tell me nothing of why you’ve come to Sandrock. Might you have an answer to offer?”</p><p>Dorothy sighed, peering out for eavesdroppers before shutting the door behind her. “The flames may tell you nothing but you’ve heard your fair share of whispers.”</p><p>“Some fair, some foul,” nodded Quintarys, gray eyes flashing as they met Dorothy’s gaze. “A tapestry can be unraveled by a single loose thread. My brother is naught but a boy.”</p><p>“And am I naught but a girl wrapped up in whims and fancies?”</p><p>“Ruin incarnate. Your mouth tastes of the same ash I breathe every time I sail near Mount Moii.”</p><p>“Yet you hungered all the same.”</p><p>With the passing of Dorothy’s father, none of the other men in the family cared to face Quintarys as House Winner’s envoy. Her presence was perceived as a slight even as she came bearing gifts from Lagran’s ports. How could they trust a woman who wore trousers and took the sea to wife? They met what they took for an insult with a jab of their own; sending Dorothy down to <em>welcome</em> Quintarys.</p><p>
  <em>“Take the wench’s gifts and be done with it,” huffed Hundelt from his brother’s seat at the head of the council table. It peeved Dorothy to no end, seeing her uncle plopped down where her father should have been. “The girl’s little older than you yet they let her sail and seek an audience with us. Does their princess think us soft? I shan’t suffer a child’s nonsense.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Of course, Uncle.”</em>
</p><p>Princess Draginta was shrewd, sending an envoy no man could comprehend. She knew of Dorothy’s precarious position at the Romfort and took full advantage. After all, a promising young woman alone in the world must be in want of companionship.</p><p>“A passing dalliance,” dismissed Quintarys. “You shan’t bring pestilence upon my house.”</p><p>“On the contrary, I’ve come to bless it.”</p><p>Dorothy maintained her distance, back still to the door as Quintarys glared daggers at her. <em>You once called me friend and taught me how to kiss. What wretches have our houses made of us?</em></p><p>“I saw enough of your display from the shadows to know you bring no good tidings.”</p><p>“Such conviction from one who chose to hide rather than stop me,” snorted Dorothy. “House Winner will have its due.”</p><p>“A Catalonia’s word is as fickle as a bitch in its first heat,” sniped Quintarys as she got to her feet, hands clenched into fists at her sides. The flames behind her seemed to roar, granting her a menacing glow. “Should my brother let me champion him, I’ll take pleasure in wringing that pretty little neck.”</p><p>“It wouldn’t be the first time you’d be pleasuring yourself at my expense,” smiled Dorothy, tugging the door back open and stepping to the side. “Now, if you don’t mind, I think it’s time you left.”</p><p>Quintarys marched herself out, pausing to stare Dorothy down with one last jab. “Had you been less of a Catalonia, I might have mustered enough pity to care for you.” She vanished down the hall before Dorothy could get a word in edgewise, fading into the dark as distance swallowed up the sound of her steps.</p><p>Dorothy was slow to close the door, fighting the urge to slam it behind the woman who wielded their intimate understanding like a knife. Should Quintarys whisper to her brother, the battle might be lost before it even began. <em>Pity.</em> Just the thought of it made Dorothy’s body coil with tension, jaw clenching as she sat herself at her vanity. She curled a fist around the handle of her hairbrush, gripping it tight as she tried to distract herself with idle primping. Her tresses offered no tension, cascading over the boar bristles as she took deep breaths, trying not to let Quintarys’s words eat at her. It would only serve to cement her defeat if her mind was clouded.</p><p>Being able to brush her own hair was a small comfort. Back at the Romfort, a cavalcade of ladies seeking favor with House Catalonia sought to serve Dorothy, almost never granting her a moment’s peace. Countless hands had brushed her hair to a shine though the faces to go with them faded in her mind’s eye. Her uncle had made sport of terrorizing a number of those girls, threatening to pin larceny or some such petty crime on them should they refuse to spread their legs. More often than not, they relented for fear of being hung. <em>Such foolish girls.</em></p><p>They were hung anyway.</p><p>Hundelt would never suffer a bastard in the Romfort. After his wife had crowned him with the horns of a cuckold, he made certain of that. Still, no number of lithe bodies to slake his lust could ever buff away the tarnish to his sword. His wife served as a living embodiment of his emasculation, and so he visited every indignity he could upon her. Angelina Catalonia walked the Romfort in heavy black frocks to hide the constellation of bruises adorning her skin. Though Hundelt bayed for his wife’s blood, he seldom drew it to the surface. No, he was far too <em>neat</em> for that. If Angelina were to bleed, it had to involve some novelty; a new way for him to inflict pain on her while sending waves reverberating toward those who fancied defying him. Dorothy always knew when her aunt had just suffered a beating by the way Hundelt’s smile slashed across his face, worm-like lips peeling back to bare yellow teeth. Even now, she shuddered at the thought.</p><p>A few days after one particularly rough round of torture, Hundelt had sent Angelina down in place of Dorothy’s usual lady-in-waiting. In the mirror, Dorothy had been forced to watch as those mangled hands moved through her hair, bloodied cotton bandages rustling through her tresses. To Dorothy’s horror, Angelina had soon dropped the brush and began combing with her fingers, red-stained cloth unraveling as it began to snag on blonde tangles.</p><p>
  <em>“Auntie, you’re hurting me!”</em>
</p><p>And yet, Angelina had carried on, revealing fingertips with bare nailbeds dripping sticky crimson, trailing blood in her niece’s hair.</p><p> </p><p></p><div class="center">
  <p>
    
  </p>
</div><p>Dorothy had been but a girl of ten when that garish warning was served at her vanity. It would not be the last. Hundelt played that cruel trick even while his brother still lived to dote on Dorothy. Now that Dorothy’s beloved lord father rotted in the ground, she knew it would only get worse.</p><p>Perhaps that was why she fled across the desert under the guise of some diplomatic mission. Hundelt was none the wiser and in no position to overrule her once his own lord father saw fit to send her on her way. Though Lord Dermail had his shortcomings, he still had a soft spot for his treasured heir’s daughter.</p><p>“Forgive me, Father,” she sighed. “Fates have conspired to make a coward of me.”</p><p>To pin her hopes to this boy who made her blood sing. Ah, such fancy. Should he strike her down, she would die in beauty; pulse racing as blood ebbed and flowed out of her to seep into the dirt. Would this lordling grant her such peace or would he surrender? It mattered little to Dorothy whether he fell to her sword or into her marriage bed. Regardless of the outcome, she fully intended to bring him to his knees before all could be said and done.</p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. The Glorious Loser</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Your body is the eye of a needle. It’s in your best interest not to be threaded into the fabric of your own funeral shroud, brother.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I got put in quarantine so this chapter is finally seeing the light of day. Art commissioned from yawniverse @ tumblr has been added to the first two chapters.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Regret pooled in Quatre’s stomach as he walked out into the courtyard in the same tunic from the night before. He was armed with little more than a sword belted and sheathed at his side, too wracked with nerves to contemplate what he should murder Dorothy with. Sleep had eluded him; a thousand different flickers of disaster teasing behind his eyelids like tongues of flame. Should he win, a pretense for war would soon be on his sister’s plate. On the other hand, defeat would mean either death or his fealty to House Catalonia.</p><p>Across from him, his challenger stepped out in style, armored like a warrior torn from the pages of Lacroan myth. Though Dorothy’s look hearkened back to her family’s heritage, it was clear that she’d streamlined her defenses for agility. The brass on her fitted breastplate glistened in the dawn, shielding her torso and little else. Her arms were left bare while a short pleated skirt of worn leather offered some semblance of modesty. The twine laces on her sandals snaked up her long shapely legs, locking in her traction as she walked out. She kept her head held high, long blonde hair tied back and swishing behind her as their eyes locked.</p><p>The way her face fell was instantaneous, thick brows furrowing at what she must have perceived as audacity at his rumpled state. Quatre immediately dropped his gaze, turning his attention to the sword at her side, noting its slimmer outline and longer reach compared to his own. She bore a blade meant for a thousand shallow cuts rather than one finishing blow, lending a light hand to her strategy. Appearing before her as he was now stood tantamount to laughing in her face.</p><p>Dorothy would be the first on a long list of women he would disappoint today. Quatre cocked his head toward Draginta, seated on a raised platform to the west of the courtyard. The princess had a sheen about her as wet hair still clung to her face from her morning swim. Her annoyance was palpable, mouth twisting in distaste as sunlight bounced off the ruby in her diadem; a faint red glare winking at Quatre from where he stood. Quintarys, newly-returned from her latest voyage, stood to their elder sister’s right. On the opposite end of the courtyard, makeshift stands sat a crowd counting his sisters, the Maganac Corps, and a number of last night’s party guests including Dorothy’s retinue. Whispers floated down to Quatre in waves, an unintelligible rumble crashing over him as he willed his knees steady lest nerves knock him off his feet.</p><p>As if sensing his unease, Quintarys’s voice soon pierced through the noise, booming with authority.</p><p>“Blessed be the sands this day!” she exalted. “May this battle bring honor to our principality. It is my privilege to stand beside Her Highness, Draginta Cifrine Winner, Princess of the Etyrsands, Matron to the Maganac, the Crowned Sword, Daughter of Defiance, and Lady of Sandrock. With her grace, we bear witness to either blood or betrothal. Long may she reign!”</p><p>“Long may she reign!” echoed the crowd while Draginta bared her teeth in a grin bordering on feral.</p><p>Only Quintarys would be so bold as to insult her while revering her in the same breath. Quatre had been around his sisters long enough to hear how they sharpened their syllables, couching insults in sentiments and small talk at court. Draginta took pride in many things but grace was the least among them. The lady of a great house stood to cut her brother to ribbons at her feet yet all she could do was smile. Quatre took it for a portent of damnation if there ever was one.</p><p>“Quatre of House Winner,” called Quintarys, still attending to the duel’s formalities. “Do you take this challenge upon yourself or shall you name a champion to fight in your stead?”</p><p>Quintarys had her lips pursed as she awaited his answer, offering him the escape of humiliation over grievous injury. As children, he’d suffered many a bloody nose whenever she humored him by playing at fisticuffs. Over and over, he fell only to get back up for more punishment. None of the other boys his age dared strike at Prince Zayeed’s beloved son but Quintarys knew better than to treat Quatre like he was made of glass. He needed to grant Dorothy the same respect he had been afforded.</p><p>“I name no champion but myself!” he bellowed, resolve coursing through his veins even as he caught Quintarys rolling her eyes.</p><p>“Very well,” she nodded, turning to address his challenger. “Dorothy of House Catalonia, do you take this-”</p><p>“I shall take it,” interrupted Dorothy. “With all my heart, I shall take this boy’s life.”</p><p>Scattered boos surged through the crowd at her declamation. Her smirk made it seem like she reveled in it, taking her stance as her hand hovered over the hilt of her sword. Quatre responded in kind, mirroring her movement in anticipation of the signal to begin.</p><p>On the platform, Draginta stood, taking on her sacred duty as she lifted her right hand to the heavens before swiftly bringing it down in a fist to pound against her chest.</p><p>“Begin,” she declared, punctuated by the ringing of steel.</p><p>Dorothy wasted no time lunging at Quatre, her first blow barely glancing off the swift parry of his blade. She snapped her sword back and danced to his left before feinting a motion to sweep his feet. With his eyes drawn down, she dove behind him.</p><p>Quatre was quick to whirl, kicking up dirt as he sidestepped. She sliced down at empty air with a vengeance, gritting her teeth as he wove and spun away from her jabs.</p><p>
  <em>Your body is the eye of a needle. It’s in your best interest not to be threaded into the fabric of your own funeral shroud, brother.</em>
</p><p>Such was the caution Quintarys has packed him when he left to aid in Lord Clark’s campaign. He heeded her as best he could yet doom found him regardless. Ah, but to think doom would be so pleasant to behold! Even as she sent him reeling back with every swing, he couldn’t help but marvel at her conviction. She put force behind every movement, steel shrieking each time he warded off another strike.</p><p>“Lady Dorothy,” he started, jumping back as she tried to bring a looping cut down on his head.</p><p>“Just Dorothy,” she smiled, speaking as if she wasn’t trying to hack him to pieces. Though she seemed cheery, her frustration was starting to manifest. At the moment, she was haphazardly slashing at his torso while he caught each strike with his sword. Whether or not she was aware of it, she had started to fall into a pattern, making it easier for him to keep playing his game of defense.</p><p>“Dorothy,” he obliged, sword still clanging along to each of her hits. “I must beg your pardon for last night’s disrespect. Your offer was most generous.”</p><p>His words seemed to almost give her pause, slowing her strikes as he contemplated the wisdom of trying to wallop her hand with the back of his sword and disarm her.</p><p>“Lies do not play well on such lips, my lord,” she glared, falling out of pattern and landing a slash to his face. The crowd gasped as warm, sticky, red besmirched Quatre’s cheek. He twisted away from her, jumping back to put some distance between them.</p><p>“Cut my heart out and see that it is true,” insisted Quatre, smiling as he began to peel back what lay beneath her facade. He carried on walking in retreat at her approach. With the back of his free hand, he smeared at the cut on his cheek, lending his face a garish blush. “I wear your favor, do I not?”</p><p>“Shall I grant you another or do you jape?” she pressed, picking up speed as if to rush him.</p><p>Taking his cue, Quatre dove to the side as her momentum sent her careening, running her sword straight through a plank on the platform Draginta sat. Growling, Dorothy tried to pull her blade free only for Quatre to snake an arm around her waist, holding his sword to her throat. He held her from behind, resting his head on the crook of her neck, dripping the blood from his cheek into her hair.</p><p>“You may grant me another,” he whispered. “A woman as fascinating as you deserves far better than death at my clumsy hands.”</p><p>“Must you carry on this pretense of your ineptitude?” she snarled. “Do me the kindness of death and be done with it.”</p><p>“Why should I grant you one kindness and deny myself another?” he questioned, clinging tighter to her waist as she squirmed. “You swore to take my life, did you not?”</p><p>“All the more reason to kill me where I stand,” she gasped in his tightening embrace.</p><p>“I shall swear it to you,” he murmured in her ear. “My life is yours to take.”</p><p>She stilled in his grip then, arms dropping to her sides as his words poured into her ears.</p><p>“I’m not sure I-”</p><p>Releasing her, Quatre strode to face Draginta and Quintarys on the platform. The sword in his hand weighed heavy as they gaped down at him, prompting him to cast it aside with a dull clang. Out of the corner of his eye, Dorothy studied him, making no move to retrieve her own weapon.</p><p>“Honorable sisters, I forfeit!” he cried, falling to his knees. “Let Lady Catalonia claim her spoils in the manner she pleases.”</p><p>Silence hung between them as Draginta rose from her seat, eyes darting between Quatre and the girl he had just vanquished. Were she worried, Draginta dared not betray it on her face. Behind Draginta, Quintarys was visibly shaken, biting into her lip hard enough to draw blood. Quatre had seen fit to snatch defeat from the jaws of victory, playing at a game marking all for loss.</p><p>House Catalonia could not lay the blame for war on him if he left Dorothy unscathed. As for this defeat? He was losing on his own terms, placing his life in Dorothy’s hands rather than under her house’s power. If she should kill him while he feigned innocence before his countrymen, he could destroy any potential alliance between their families for generations to come. And if they should wed…</p><p>Well, he hadn’t thought that far ahead. At the very least, Draginta would know better than to try and use him as collateral again. The marriage would be by his machinations, not theirs.</p><p>The threat of a smile might have unfurled on his lips if not for the sound of Dorothy’s approaching footsteps. Her face was somber as she hiked up her leather skirt to reveal a dagger strapped to her thigh. With a flourish, she unsheathed it, approaching him with no hesitation. In mockery of his earlier victory, she stood behind him and held the knife to his throat.</p><p>
  <em>Did I misjudge her?</em>
</p><p> </p><p></p><div class="center">
  <p> </p>
</div><p>Leaning forward, she hissed in his ear. The blade at his neck was still warm from being sheathed so close to her skin. A soft wet sensation teased at his cheek as she tasted the blood from the cut to his face.</p><p>“Do you fear death, Quatre?” she whispered, dropping all semblance of simpering and formality.</p><p>“I’ve been dying since the day I was born,” he murmured, feeling her press the blade in deeper. With one swipe, she could end him. He might as well leave her with something amusing.</p><p>The blade pulled away then, leaving a small cut to trickle blood down his tunic. He looked up at Dorothy as she faced Draginta, raising the stained dagger to the air.</p><p>“I seal this betrothal in blood as my ancestors did!” she exclaimed, standing defiant as the crowd began to buzz.</p><p>Draginta was pallid, visibly swallowing the storm welling up inside her. In one swift motion, she snatched the diadem from her head, throwing it at Dorothy’s feet. A collective gasp erupted through the stands.</p><p>“Take that for his dowry,” she commanded. “You should have something of worth.”</p><p>Draginta always did know just how to wound him. He grinned up at her regardless. As he stood, his betrothed lowered her dagger, preparing to bend for the diadem. He was quick to grab Dorothy’s wrist, shaking his head.</p><p>“Let me,” he insisted.</p><p>As a foreigner, Dorothy knew little about the intricacies of Estyri custom. <em>Gifts are given. Scraps are thrown. One is little more than a dog to tolerate such disrespect. </em>Dorothy had been through enough. He could take another humiliation upon himself.</p><p>And so, he picked up the diadem, turning to lay it upon Dorothy’s head. Now, it could truly count as a gift. All the while, he kept smiling. She looked at him in puzzlement, likely wondering if his senses had departed with all the blood he lost.</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Next chapter should be lighter with 1xR. :)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. The Perturbed Princess</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Her husband had been fighting for his life since the day he was born, trying to justify his existence to the world. His cobalt eyes, only a shade darker than her own, boasted a fire she could only hope to light within herself.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This 1xR chapter took much longer than I thought it would. It's also shorter than I intended but I think I ended it on the right note. Further background on 1xR can be found in Ennobled, a smut one-shot set in this same AU.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Relena had taken to breaking her fast alone in her solar, choosing to eat at the writing desk by her window. Holding back a yawn, she sniffed at her goblet. The scent was potent, wrinkling her upturned nose. Resigned, she rinsed the taste of sleep from her mouth with the concoction of fennel, mint, and lemon peel steeped in hot water. Hardly the best way to start a meal but it was routine. Back when she dined with her father, he had sworn by swallowing the rinse as some show of bravado even as Relena took to ducking under the table for the spittoon meant for fruit pits. It was hardly ladylike but her mother, rest her soul, had never reproached her. The Peacecrafts had kept dawn a private affair, gathering in the same rumpled clothes they slept in, reveling in the lack of pretense that so often ran roughshod over their great hall.</p><p>It would be a novelty to start the day like that now.</p><p>Since Relena had been wed, she expected a husband’s demands for company when he took his meals. Most wives would be up before dawn; pulled from slumber by their ladies-in-waiting, subjected to the shock of a cold bath, forced to chew on mint like cud, then cinched into a gown in haste before being plopped down at the table. Ladies of that caliber would never even dream of ducking for a spittoon. One could very easily starve such a lady at a feast by serving naught but bony fish and fowl, seeded bread, and grapes. Better to go hungry or choke than embarrass one’s lord husband.</p><p>The man Relena wed had no such demands. If anything, he demanded very little at all. He refused the respect commanded by his title unless he absolutely had to wield it.</p><p>Adin Clark was the last vestige of House Clark; son to its troubled heir, Seis, and a dark-haired Lagrani beauty hailing from the city of Eline. The woman had called herself Aoi, and rumor had it that she was with child long before Seis ever spilled his seed in her. Against all good sense, Seis had tied his life to hers even as his family suspected Aoi of casting some enchantment upon their kin. Guests who recalled the wedding had claimed the bride’s belly was as round as the moon that had blessed that night. That same moon had shriveled and burgeoned but thrice before Adin came into the world screaming, killing his mother in childbed.</p><p>Seis had been leading a military campaign when he had heard of his wife’s passing. Of the few men who had fought their way out of the Goosevale, only one had carried word of Seis and his fall. The soldier had claimed that Seis did naught but stand in the thick of the fighting, waiting to be struck down as House Noventa’s forces approached from both sides, trapping them in a bottleneck.</p><p>House Clark fell and the bards sang with abandon.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Down by the keep of ash and bone</em>
</p><p>
  <em>A stump of yew stood guard</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Hollow inside, it hid a prize</em>
</p><p>
  <em>An orphan babe unscarred</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>A man with one eye soon rode by</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Hearing the wood cry out</em>
</p><p>
  <em>A curious mind soon did find</em>
</p><p>
  <em>The heir born into doubt</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Relena knew only as much as she did from months of correspondence and eavesdropping. The boy from the yew was the man she called husband. For most of his life, he’d worn the one-eyed man’s jape as a name: Heero Yuy.</p><p>“Well, he most certainly is ‘of the yew,” she mused, tearing at the bread on her plate without lifting a single bite to her mouth.</p><p>Nearly a century ago, another Heero had walked Espheria as a sage of peace. He had rallied the commoners to quiet insurrection, teaching them how to live off the land rather than toil in fields for their lords. His followers had fled to the woods with him, leaving many a noble house’s harvest to rot. The sage had boasted a quick wit and a sharp tongue, negotiating wages for his people as Espheria’s richest families learned what it meant to starve through the winter. Decades later, lords still quieted their serfs with ample coin before a harvest.</p><p>Though Heero had won much, his audacity had not come without consequences. A brigand’s blade had silenced the sage at the first sign of thaw. Espheria had not seen of man of his ilk since.</p><p>Relena twisted a loose lock of her honey blonde hair around her finger, twirling it as she pondered her own Heero’s disposition. Her husband had been fighting for his life since the day he was born, trying to justify his existence to the world. His cobalt eyes, only a shade darker than her own, boasted a fire she could only hope to light within herself. The man never stopped moving, rising before the rooster’s crow and coming to her bedchamber long after she retired for the night.</p><p>A knock at her door pulled her back to the task at hand. Casting a glance at her plate, she couldn’t help but lament how she had fidgeted with her food. Her bread was almost torn to crumbs while the butter had hardened in its crock. A white film of fat had formed on the rasher of bacon as it cooled. Her boiled egg still sat unshelled in its brass chickenfoot cup. The only salvation for her meal sat in a fingerpot of honey, giving her something to dip her bread in as she sipped on milk.</p><p>“Come in,” she sighed, listening for the creak of the door rather than turning to rise and greet her visitor. It was about time for the day’s mail. She took correspondence best in the early morning, still clad in the comfort of her white cotton nightclothes. She wiped the crumbs from her fingers onto the hem of her sheer gown, wondering if she should abandon breaking her fast entirely.</p><p>Her visitor had a light gait, closing the door behind them with a gentle push. Relena’s ears perked up at how quiet they were. Her usual errand girl had a habit of bursting through the door with the day’s sheaf of letters, marching up to Relena with a smile and a salutation.</p><p>She turned her head, seeing none other than her lord husband standing with her mail in hand. The straw in his mop of short brown hair betrayed an early jaunt to the stables. Other than that, he was pristine. His boots boasted a fresh polish. The slashed velvet of his emerald doublet fit snug around his broad shoulders, painting him as a nobleman toned by toil and battle. Fine leather trousers clung tight to his legs, making him stand a little straighter. Had he changed before coming up to her solar? Relena’s father always seemed to have some menial chore for Heero, testing to see if bringing him into House Peacecraft had been the right call. Most days, she hardly saw him at all. Now that he stood before her all spruced up, she couldn’t help the blush crawling up her cheeks. He had a bad habit of coming to see her when she was in a state of undress.</p><p>His thick brows furrowed as he laid the letters on her desk.</p><p>“You haven’t eaten?” he questioned, eyeing the cold plate.</p><p>As a wife, the proper etiquette demanded Relena stand and apologize for worrying him with such a foible. She did neither, offering him an easy smile even as she tried to quell the blood rushing to her face. “The sunrise caught me in a daydream.”</p><p>She reached for the first letter in the pile, eager to change the subject. Lifting it up, she studied the sigil embossed in red wax: a sword, with a woman’s head carved into the pommel, against a spotted background. Relena had seen this banner many a time: a white field with a pattern of blood droplets in red. The woman on the sword’s pommel was none other than the oracle that brought this house’s first lord to Espheria. <em>Blood before Tears.</em> House Catalonia.</p><p>“It’s from Dorothy,” murmured Relena. It had to be. No other Catalonia wanted anything to do with House Peacecraft.</p><p>After taking a deep breath, Relena reached for her table knife, breaking the seal. Heero made no move to leave, waiting to watch her read it. When she peered up at him staring, he was quick to interject.</p><p>“An Estyri envoy brought that. They said it was meant for both of us.”</p><p>What could Dorothy be doing out in the Estyrsands? She unfolded the parchment, recognizing Dorothy’s thin loopy writing on sight. Pressing her lips together, she thought better of reading it aloud. Her friend had cut many a lady to shreds at court.</p><p>
  <em>Princess Relena of House Peacecraft,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>May the gods bless your marriage. The lords and ladies at my grandfather’s court whisper that you wed under cover of night, without a single guest save a witness. I have never known Your Highness to ever court such scandal. Mayhaps your lord husband was swept up in passion. After all, he struck quite the bargain with your father. Though you style yourself as a Clark now, your children will bear the name of Peacecraft unless they refuse their birthright. Pray tell, where did your father find a man so humble? I look forward to meeting this husband of yours when time permits.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>At the moment, I am occupied with my own betrothal. Princess, I have met a lord as kind as I am foolish. He has humored my whims, and I must pay him in grace. Lord Quatre Raberba Winner is taking me to wife. With this marriage, we hope to be of greater aid to Sank. Another envoy will be arriving at the moon’s next wane with a formal invitation. It is my most ardent wish for you to attend.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Your loyal servant,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Dorothy</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Relena’s gut had not led her astray. The letter dripped poison, couching contempt in compliments. It was a warning of war to come.</p><p>Heero had wed Relena in haste to rush back to the battlefield. The Goosevale had been overrun by brigands looking to intercept a train of Sherwood supply wagons en route to Sank. Quatre had been gracious enough to bring his Maganac riders into the fray. Fighting on the same field where his father had been slain, Heero had known the risk of a bottleneck and so…</p><p>Quatre had taken a battering ram to the gates at Feller Bridge. House Catalonia’s bridge.</p><p>This was a petty reprisal. Dorothy was going to take House Winner’s power for her own. With their resources and her family’s gold, she could bury Sank.</p><p>Not that she actually would. No, she just wanted Relena to know that she could. Such was the consequence for snubbing Dorothy to wed a bastard.</p><p>With care, Relena folded the letter and set it back down on her desk. She gave Heero a wry smile, hoping it reached her eyes. “We’ve been invited to a wedding.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>"Adin" is pulled from Frozen Teardrop with katakana confirmed by a translator. It's the Russian word for "one."</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. The Goddess of Perdition</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>His house prayed to the sands while she beckoned the goddess of perdition for a gamble. <i>Take us both to burn should I lose this wager.</i></p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This took quite some time but I'm glad my last vacation for the year was able to accomodate finishing this chapter. Holiday season is about to hit meaning more real life commitments so the next chapter may take awhile. I hope you enjoy this in the meantime. Special thanks to Mareike and Sprite for the beta help.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It was a perilous climb going up the long winding staircase to the guest’s bedchambers in Sandrock’s east tower. Dorothy wondered how House Winner’s maidservants navigated such a feat with trays in hand, bringing the day’s meals without tumbling down the steps. On top of that, the doors to the room were heavy, often sticking in their hinges even when unlocked. No one was coming in unannounced unless they meant to scale the walls and push through a window.</p><p>It had been three days since Quatre fell from his horse. Dorothy kept the curtains drawn, only permitting what little sunlight could seep through the purple silks. A single candle wept at the table by his bed, banishing the shadows near him with a gentle flame. His sisters had been quick to usher her into a room with her betrothed, burying her in responsibility.</p><p>
  <em>“His bride should know how to tend to him,” sneered Draginta, veiling an edict in a suggestion.</em>
</p><p>Quatre shivered under the covers, still subject to chills from cold sweats despite his woolen tunic. Succulent sap helped to adhere the poultices to his neck and cheek as he tossed and turned. His Maganac riders already whispered of how Dorothy must have let malignant humours into his body with the holes she bore into him. They dubbed her many a harsh nickname in Estyri:<em> lágà, tanem, usik</em>. A member of her retinue translated the murmurings as best they could.</p><p>
  <em>“They’ve pegged you for a she-devil, milady. They fear their lord cursed for binding himself to you.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“And the geckos?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“A charm to vanquish evil. Or so his riders hope. The geckos are said to tick to the rhythm of a guilt-ridden heart.”</em>
</p><p>Absolutely ridiculous. The man called Rashid had come up while she was down in the bathhouse, leaving the accursed creatures in his wake. Flashes of silver skittered across the walls and vaulted ceiling, tails swishing in the faint light. They joined the crickets in symphony, ticking along to the chirps at nightfall. The song pushed Dorothy more toward vexation than penitence. As far as she was concerned, no blame lay on her head.</p><p>She tugged at the stays in her corset with far more force than necessary, all too eager to be free of her high-necked sable frock. Harlikan fashion favored looser tunics and more daring silhouettes but she had to take care how she painted herself into this family’s portrait. Playing at modesty and grief was paramount.</p><p>Once she was down to her white cotton night clothes, she set pillows between her body and Quatre’s. Evening’s shade darkened the curtains, ushering in the end of another harrowing day. Blessings were few and far between but she counted the huge bed among them. The mattress was made to sleep a noble and their choice of at least four courtiers to warm them in the cold desert night; no doubt a vestige of the last prince’s penchant for concubines.</p><p>Her betrothed had begun to rest easy, stilling beneath the sheets. Mayhaps the poultices were just late in their potency. One of his sisters had come up to him as soon as he had left the courtyard following the duel, dabbing at his wounds with bandages soaked in some tincture. He had seemed none the worse for wear the day after that save for a bright green paste of medicinal herbs smeared on the cuts to his neck and cheek. Every measure had been taken to keep him from falling ill and yet…</p><p>She plopped her head down on a pillow, watching the geckos dance with shadows and candlelight on the ceiling. Their ticking faded to the back of her mind as she considered the maneuvers that lay before her. Should she wake next to a corpse, her execution might very well be on the table. He couldn’t possibly be that ill, could he? Though she had needed to help him to the chamberpot more than either of them would have liked, she doubted his death was imminent. She took on the blows as they came, counting this stint as nursemaid toward leverage once he was restored.</p><p>Did she dare risk falling asleep as the candle still burned? A faint plume of smoke curled in the stillness, snaking up into the ether. Would her grand plans go the same route? There was much to contemplate, least among them the ghost of a sting that still lingered on her cheek. Though she tried to banish it from her mind, she could not absolve Novette for having struck her. The Justice of the Sands had come at her with an open palm the night before, raging at her brother’s convalescence.</p><p>
  <em>“Your name may keep your head on your shoulders, but I will bury you with him should he perish.”</em>
</p><p>Dorothy did not take well to such threats. In that moment, she could have struck back at the misguided Justice, inviting grievance at court. Instead, she had let her uncle’s grin slash across her face, baring teeth in an almost feral display.</p><p>
  <em>“Blood before tears, Lady Novette.”</em>
</p><p>Would that it were quite so simple. She muttered a curse under her breath, glaring at the malignancy that lay beside her. The sap keeping his poultices in place was beginning to lose adhesion. She wondered what might be wrought upon his body if she let his cuts breathe. Foul humours needed a means of escape, did they not? His house prayed to the sands while she beckoned the goddess of perdition for a gamble.<em> Take us both to burn should I lose this wager. </em></p><p>With nimble fingers, she pinched at the corners on the poultices, lifting them from his skin. Sticky white strings stretched and broke as she pulled off the gauze covered in blood, sweat, and a smear of purple petals pounded into green salve. The cuts beneath were still open though they had begun to scab. Leaning over him, she lay the filthy bandages next to the candle before proceeding to blow out the flame. The geckos ticked on as she closed her eyes, counting down to the morn.</p><p>Though she slept deep, her peace would not hold.</p><p>Dawn roused her from her slumber far sooner than expected. A pair of hands seized her by the shoulders, shaking her with the violence of an unbridled stallion. She blinked the sleep from her eyes, trying to bring her assailant into focus. A short bob of tousled golden hair framed a round face that was the very picture of distress. They glared blue fire at her as she woke and tried to parse their anguished babbling.</p><p>“Did you do this?” they accused. “The bittersop blossoms? Was this your idea?”</p><p>Definitely a woman’s voice. Another one of Quatre’s sisters? They held up a soggy purple petal from one of the discarded poultices, shoving it in Dorothy’s face. The nails on their other hand dug hard into her shoulder. Most unpleasant. Was this the goddess of perdition come to roost?</p><p>“Unhand me now and I may forgive your intemperance,” demanded Dorothy, tearing away from their grasp.</p><p>The woman pulled back, throwing a glance at Quatre as he awoke to the ruckus. She had leaned over him to shake Dorothy awake, paying little mind to his need for bed rest.</p><p>“Iria?” he mumbled, trying to lift himself up by his elbows. He looked far less flushed than the night before, lacking the sheen of sweat that had plagued him in days passed. The name on his lips sat in a shape Dorothy recognized.</p><p>Iria Aphori Winner. The renowned healer must have just returned from Lagran. She had come to the Romfort with Quintarys once, tended to Angelina after one of Hundelt’s rages almost escalated to murder. Dorothy hadn’t seen much of her beyond glimpses through the keyhole to her aunt’s bedchamber door. From what she heard, the woman could work miracles. She left a lasting impression when she had departed, tossing a satchel of coin over her shoulder as refusal of compensation from Hundelt.</p><p>“Bittersop blossom is a woman’s remedy,” harped Iria, barely acknowledging her brother’s awakening. “Harlots and courtesans use it to cleanse the womb with fever.”</p><p>Dorothy could tell that a long journey had worn on the healer. The waistband on Iria’s marigold dyed skirts sat askew on her hips, drawstring frayed. Her shoulders betrayed a visible lashing from the sun, bared by her adherence to Lagrani fashion. Even for Harlika, it was daring to wear a drape of white cotton around the torso, secured only by a skill for tucking and folding. It was hard to tell who among the three of them in the room was in the worst state of undress.</p><p>“My company provides no pleasure and demands no payment,” snapped Dorothy, trying to make sense of the accusation. She knew naught of herbal remedies but she did notice the vibrant purple in the poultice. Without a keen eye for such things, she had thought nothing of it.</p><p>“You risk your reputation by sharing my brother’s bed, do you not?”</p><p>Another barb. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Quatre’s head darting between her and his sister, likely wondering if he should interject.</p><p>“The princess asked it of me,” spat Dorothy. “Is it not the custom to tend to one’s betrothed?”</p><p>“In Harlika, yes. Could one say the same of your Romfort?”</p><p>It took Dorothy a second to contemplate the weight of the query. The betrothal was not set in stone until all manner of formal announcements had been made. Besides the letter she had penned to House Peacecraft before Quatre fell, she had told no one of her intent to marry. By tending to Quatre, she may have very well implied permission to write to her family. It would have been all too easy to feign concern.</p><p>“My brother sent me a falcon before he rode to assist Lord Clark,” continued Iria. “I came as soon as I heard he might be heading home. Never thought he would get up to so much trouble while I was gone.”</p><p>Quatre cleared his throat then, turning both women’s heads. “Might you have considered asking me about all this, sister?”</p><p>Iria sighed, resting the back of her hand against his forehead. “Well, looks like your fever’s broken. Enlighten me then. Who thought to dabble with remedies while I was gone? It couldn’t possibly have been any of the other healers at court. They know better.”</p><p>“Would you believe if I were to tell you I tried to tend to my cuts myself?”</p><p>
  <em>He’s as terrible a liar as any.</em>
</p><p>“Not even a little,” chided Iria. “I know this girl is your betrothed but it’s a bit much to cover for her trying to kill you a second time within a fortnight.”</p><p>“It’s not her I’m covering for,” he grimaced, giving up the pretense all too quickly. “I’m sure they meant well. No need to fret over them.”</p><p>
  <em>Which of his sisters had it been tending to him after the duel?</em>
</p><p>“Quintarys? Seira?”</p><p>Iria began to rattle off names, glaring at Quatre as she did so.</p><p>“Iria, please.”</p><p>“Novette then? She was peeved you didn’t write. Mayhaps this-”</p><p>“No, she’s been more than patient.”</p><p>Dorothy held her tongue, mistaken though he was. Now was not the time to bring up Novette striking her. Iria was relentless, and Dorothy hated to get in the middle of this interrogation before some answers came to light.</p><p>“Alterra?”</p><p>A long pause stretched out as Iria tried to read her brother’s face. “I’ve known your tells since the top of your head still met my knees, Quatre. Spit it out.”</p><p>“She didn’t mean any harm. Her books talked of new ways to keep cuts from festering and-”</p><p>“She has no mind of her own beyond wanting Ginti’s approval. You poor little fool.”</p><p>
  <em>Ginti?</em>
</p><p>“I doubt the princess would wish me harm.”</p><p>
  <em>Draginta. Of course.</em>
</p><p>“Another lie. I love Ginti with all my heart but you know she would-”</p><p>“Iria, please.”</p><p>“Iria, please,” she repeated, mocking. She cupped his face between her two hands, laying kisses on both his cheeks before resting her forehead against his so the full weight of her stare fell upon him. “So polite. So kind. Your softness will be the death of you. Ginti and I will have words.”</p><p>
  
</p><p>“Will we?”</p><p>The princess’s voice sounded as she emerged from the doorway, sweeping into the chamber, silken blue skirts swishing behind her. She wore a shirt of thin white muslin that would likely bare everything underneath if the curtains weren’t drawn to shut most of the light out. Was this the finery she slept in? It appeared she climbed up the east tower in haste, long brown hair still sticking up in odd places from resting her head against her pillow. Did the whole principality mean to visit today?</p><p>“I took the liberty of telling your grandfather how much you’ve come to care for my brother, Lady Dorothy,” smirked Draginta. “We really cannot thank you enough for tending to him.”</p><p>The princess clutched a folded piece of parchment in hand. Dorothy recognized the particular shade of red on the seal peering from between Draginta’s fingers.</p><p>“And my grandfather addressed his response to me?”</p><p>“That he did,” she crooned, presenting Dorothy with the letter. “Shall Iria and I have our words and leave you-”</p><p>“No,” she murmured, drawing all their eyes to her. “I think this should be read aloud.”</p><p>She steeled herself as she broke the seal, hoping her heartbeat was in sync with the man who bore her father. The geckos ticked in rhythm with the pounding in her chest.</p><p>“Beloved granddaughter,” she began. “I am most disappointed that you would keep secrets from me.”</p><p>Dorothy didn’t even have to peer over the top of the page to know Draginta was grinning from ear to ear.</p><p>“But I have always trusted your sense of reason,” she carried on. “Had this not been a fortuitous match, I would have struck you from succession. Only you could bring splendor from ruin. The boy is promising, and beds are a woman’s battlefield. Wield your passion before his blood runs cold. Shatter you mai-”</p><p>At that, she had to take a pause, trying to shun embarrassment. Dermail Catalonia had always been honest to a fault when it came to family.</p><p>“Shatter your maidenhead and leave him besotted. It matters not when. We will take up arms for you should he renege and besmirch your honor.”</p><p>The letter ended with his loopy signature, and a distinct flaming to Dorothy’s cheeks. “That took a turn, didn’t it?”</p><p>The geckos carried on ticking, skittering over Draginta’s feet.</p><p> </p>
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